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Thackeray, with no better guide than a chap-book, was minded to belittle him, now habiting him like a scullion, now sending him forth on some petty errand of cly-faking.
"Nay, dear! don't look so strange with those eyes of your'n, nor talk so strangely; I don't understand you." "Nor I you; what do you mean by cly-faking?" "Lor, dear! no harm; only taking a handkerchief now and then." "Do you take me for a thief?"
‘Nay, dear! don’t look so strange with those eyes of your’n, nor talk so strangely; I don’t understand you.’ ‘Nor I you; what do you mean by cly-faking?’ ‘Lor, dear! no harm; only taking a handkerchief now and then.’ ‘Do you take me for a thief?’
Throughout the eighteenth century the art of cly-faking held its own, though its reputation paled in the glamour of the highway. Now and again circumstances have driven it into eclipse. When the facile sentiment of the Early Victorian Era poised the tear of sympathy upon every trembling eyelid, the most obdurate was forced to provide himself with a silk handkerchief of equal size and value.
'Why, seeing you clamber up so fiercely, I thought you might have had ill luck, and that you wished to make away with yourself. 'Ill luck, said I, going into the stone bower, and sitting down. 'What do you mean? ill luck in what? 'Why, no great harm, dear! cly-faking perhaps. 'Are you coming over me with dialects, said I, 'speaking unto me in fashions I wot nothing of?
"Why, seeing you clamber up so fiercely, I thought you might have had ill luck, and that you wished to make away with yourself." "Ill luck," said I, going into the stone bower and sitting down. "What do you mean? ill luck in what?" "Why, no great harm, dear! cly-faking, perhaps." "Are you coming over me with dialects," said I, "speaking unto me in fashions I wot nothing of?"
'Nay, dear! don't look so strange with those eyes of your'n, nor talk so strangely; I don't understand you. 'Nor I you; what do you mean by cly-faking? 'Lor, dear! no harm; only taking a handkerchief now and then. 'Do you take me for a thief?
The walk London's Cheape Street of the Lombards Strange bridge Main arch The roaring gulf The boat Cly-faking A comfort The book The blessed woman No trap. So I set out on my walk to see the wonders of the big city, and, as chance would have it, I directed my course to the east.
‘Why, seeing you clamber up so fiercely, I thought you might have had ill luck, and that you wished to make away with yourself.’ ‘Ill luck,’ said I, going into the stone bower, and sitting down. ‘What do you mean? ill luck in what?’ ‘Why, no great harm, dear! cly-faking perhaps.’ ‘Are you coming over me with dialects,’ said I, ‘speaking unto me in fashions I wot nothing of?’
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